they don't know that i come home and literally TEAR apart my bedroom when i'm mad. the posters off my walls, the sheets off my bed, my homework. they don't know i cry myself to sleep every night wondering what my dad is doing. what he's thinking. they don't know that i stay up at night praying to my cousin that my best friend won't try to kill herself tonight. they don't know that i die a little inside everytime my sister mentions the boy i used to love's name. they don't know that i've been abused. treated like garbage. and frankly, they probably don't give a damn, so why i am i even taking the time to type this?
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